


Lucky

by Arriva



Category: The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: Alex gets really really angry, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-12 07:05:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7090795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arriva/pseuds/Arriva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Strand has no idea how lucky he is, but he's about to get a wakeup call.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lucky

At two in the morning, it's not insomnia that wakes Alex up. It's a phone call.

She doesn't recognize the number, but she picks up anyways. Journalistic instinct and disregard for her own safety are a dangerous blend. Still groggy, she doesn't register the voice on the other end until, "...with the Camas Police Department. Am I speaking to Alex Reagan?"

It hits her like a volt of electricity.

Alex sits up in her bed with the phone pressed to her ear. She stammers out a yes as she throws the comforter off. She half-listens to the voice, a man she realizes, while she darts around her apartment. She throws on the first clothes she can grab, combs her hair with her fingers, and grabs her keys. Seconds later she is out the door, her mind racing to the worst outcomes. Nic is dead. Amalia's missing again. Coralee's been found. Strand is... oh god, what if Strand is-

"We have a Richard Strand in our holding cell who gave us your number. He says you're coworkers."

She stops on the stairs, as if being snapped out of a trance. "Oh." So he's alive. And for once, Alex knows exactly where to find him. What is she even supposed to ask now? _What is my coworker in for?_

"We got a call from a local bar that he and another patron were fighting. We brought them both in, but the charges were dropped about thirty minutes ago," the policeman continues. His voice is tired, routine. No doubt he doesn't want to work the late shift any more than Alex wants to get in her car at two in the morning. "We just need someone to pick him up."

Alex's shoulders sag with relief. Strand must have called Ruby. Ruby must have pulled a few thousand strings. The damage is contained for now.

Alex informs the officer she'll be there in two hours and hangs up. Still shaking from adrenaline, she gets to her car and slides into the front seat. Breathe, she tells herself. She rests her head against the wheel, only for a minute or so. She wouldn't be able to sleep anyways. She turns her key in the ignition and pulls out of her apartment complex. The ride ahead of her is going to be a long one so she might as well start driving.

She can only imagine how long the ride back will be.

* * *

Alex drives about twenty miles over the speed limit, relying on luck not to encounter any state troopers. The radio is blasting some rock tune. As long as it's loud, Alex doesn't care what the song is.

Two hours is a long time on the road, and her mind inevitably starts to drift. She stares down at the outfit she threw together: faded green sweatpants she wears all the time and a red top she barely wears. She doesn't know why she even bought it; the top hangs too loosely on her, and the color is garishly bright. It makes her look like a tomato on steroids.

And the last thing she wants to do is wear it for two hours.

By the time she gets to the Camas police station at four thirty in the morning, every inconvenience sets her on edge. She missed her exit. She couldn't find a parking spot at the station and had to park at a McDonald's. Worst of all, the red top keeps sliding down her shoulder.

She arrives at the station hating that top even more. The red sticks out like a blood spatter against the sickly white tiles. The two other people in the waiting room, a disinterested receptionist and a snoring drunk, wear faded grays and blues. Why hadn't she grabbed something else? Or even a jacket?

The receptionist hands her paperwork which she fills out quickly. The receptionist then dumps Strands belongings on the counter: his wallet, his keys, and his cell phone. Turned off, of course.

Then Alex waits. She sits on a hard plastic bench with her arms crossed and her mind racing about what the hell Strand has gotten himself into. The fluorescent lights are too bright for four in the morning. Adding to her irritation is a noisy AC in the waiting room that makes a tapping sound every thirty seconds. Each tap and Alex feels herself stretching like a rubber band.  _Tap. Tap._

What the hell is Strand doing back there? Maybe he found a haunting to debunk. She shouldn't be surprised. She's _always_ waiting for Strand.  _Tap. Tap._ Think of the devil and he appears is how the saying goes, right? Maybe not. She waits another ten minutes for Strand to finally grace her with his presence.

And when he does, he looks _terrible_.

His suit is uncharacteristically wrinkled. He has remnants of a bloody nose. His glasses are cracked, and his left eye is swollen. He has a limp he's trying his damnedest to hide. That confident stride he normally has is gone; just standing there seems to be draining him.

_Tap. Tap._

Despite being years older than her, Strand approaches Alex like a student going to the principal's office: ashamed not of getting in trouble but of getting caught. Alex stands, inspecting the good doctor. Their eyes meet halfway. She thinks she can keep herself contained, push her fury toward Strand to the back of her mind. But when she looks into those cool blue eyes, her mood turns _stormy_.

Alex turns and walks briskly out of the police station, Strand following at a distance. She gets in her car, slamming the door with unnecessary force, and Strand slips in shortly after. He keeps his eyes on the dashboard. Alex can smell booze on him. She doubts he drank, but then again, she doubted she'd be picking him up from a police station at four in the morning.

"Where's your car?" she asks tersely.

"I took a taxi," Strand says. Of course he did.

Alex wordlessly pulls out of the McDonald's and begins the drive back to Seattle. The clock reads five in the morning. Maybe if Alex speeds, she can get back by seven and take a quick nap before work.

And get out of this awful, _awful_ red top.

For the first hour, Alex and Strand don't speak. Alex drives with her hands tight on the wheel and her lips pressed into a thin line. Strand gazes out the window so only the back of his head is visible to Alex. Fine by her. She can never tell what he's thinking anyways. This time though she doesn't give a damn.

After the stretch of tense silence, Strand has the nerve to break it. "Alex, I-"

"What happened?" she snaps.

Strand hesitates. Let him. Alex is dying to hear him mangle his way through an explanation. "There was an altercation."

"An _altercation_?" She wants to scream. Just pull the car over and scream into the night. "So that's what we're going with? Did Ruby even know you were gone?"

"This wasn't supposed to happen."

"And that's supposed to make me feel better? It happened, Strand," Alex says. Her knuckles are white against the wheel. That tapping from the AC still echoes in her head.  _Tap. Tap._ "I can't believe you would do this."

"I don't need a lecture from you," Strand says sharply. 

"Just a ride," she retorts.

Strand scoffs. "This is rich coming from you, Ms. Reagan. Considering your blatant disregard for the ethics of journalism, I'd think you'd be less inclined to judge."

Alex doesn't know what does it: the patronizing way he says her name or the subject of her dubious journalism practices. But the tapping in her head grows louder, like Strand is taking a chisel and cracking her skull apart. Grip on the wheel tightening, she says, "You _really_ don't want to bring that up right now."

Oblivious, Strand says, "Why? Are you recording this conversation without my permission too?"

_Tap._

Alex yanks the wheel to the right, sending her car swerving to the side of the road. Before Strand can orient himself, she hits the brakes. With a screech of tires, Strand's head slams into the dashboard. By the time he's seeing straight again, Alex is out of the car and stalking down the highway.

He watches her in a daze as she grows smaller against the horizon. She's impossible to lose sight of with that tacky red shirt on. But that's not what Strand's drawn to. It's the back of her head. His eyes fixate on her wavy brown hair, and suddenly, he's losing himself, losing sense of time and place. He's back at the gas station. Coralee is walking down the road.

His heart stops.

He can't let her go. Not this time.

Strand fumbles out of the car. Despite his limp, he catches up to Alex relatively easily. The first rays of the sun shine over the horizon, bathing her in light. Strand doesn't believe in angels or otherworldly beings, but he wonders briefly if she is even real. He reaches out to her, fingers brushing against her arm. She _is_  real.

And she is livid.

Alex whips around with a fire in her eyes. "Do you have  _any_ idea how worried I was?" she yells.

"I know," he says quietly.

Despite their substantial height difference, Alex towers over him. "No, you don't. I thought you might be dead, or worse someone _else_ had died and you were involved." Strand opens his mouth to say something, but Alex cuts him off again. "And you know what else? You don't get to wake me up at two in the morning to bail you out of something you won't let me get involved with!"

"I know."

"You want to hide every detail about your life from me, fine. If you ever decide you _do_  need my help, fine. But not like this!" She sounds thunderous, miles away from the calm of her podcast voice. "I don't know what you were doing in Camas, but this was dangerous. Worse, it was  _stupid._ "

"I know." His voice is nearly a whisper.

The storm that is Alex Reagan begins to recede. "Do you? If I lose you, I..." Her voice cracks on that last sentence. "If _we_ lose you... I don't know what we'll do."

And with that the storm passes. Her chest heaves like she's run a marathon. The only sounds on the road are her heavy breathing and the occasional car passing. As dawn approaches, Alex realizes what she's done. She yelled at Dr. Richard Strand. She's only yelled at a handful of people in her life: her parents, Nic, a college boyfriend. And now Strand.

Strand hasn't said another word. He has a stunned expression on his face. Alex is used to long silences between them, but this one feels wrong. "Well? Say something." A stuffy monologue, pretentious academic discourse,  _anything_.

"You're right." Alex draws back, shock plain on her face. Is she still asleep? Is wish fulfillment a new facet of her insomnia? "I shouldn't have gone to Camas without telling anyone. I should have left when I felt something was wrong."

"Then what made you stay?" Alex says. The rage in her voice is fading, replaced by familiar curiosity.

Strand sighs. "A lead on Coralee."

Coralee. She had a feeling that was why. Alex understands now - she doesn't approve by any means, but she understands. Strand's shoulders are slumped, his frame swallowed by a dirty suit jacket. Behind those cracked glasses, his eyes show the years on him. He can't take his eyes off Alex, like she'll disappear too if he dares. Alex can't look away either. Oh yes, she is still filled to the brim with anger toward him. But now understanding as well. "It was a dead end. As you may have guessed," he adds.

"I'm so sorry," Alex says softly.

"Me too."

She approaches him slowly until only a few inches separate them. Then she gently wraps her arms around him, as if he'll break if she squeezes too hard. Strand tenses on initial contact, but he quickly softens. His arms find themselves around Alex with one hand stroking the back of her head.

If only they could stay like this. Just for a day, even an hour. The fallout from Strand's arrest is yet to come but awaits them back in Seattle. For now her head is pressed into his chest, and she can hear his heartbeat. The steady _thump thump_  gradually drowns out the tapping in her ears. She could fall asleep standing on the road as long as she stayed in his arms.

That's why she whispers into his chest, "We should get back."

They unceremoniously pull away. Strand straightens his tie as if that will hide the cuts and bruises on him. What a pair they are: a doctor who looks like he crawled out of a gutter and a journalist who looks like she got dressed in the dark. Alex cracks a tiny smile. "I think we could both use a change of clothes."

Strand huffs out a laugh. He glances at her shirt. "I was curious about your... choice of wardrobe, but I thought it best not to say anything."

"Don't push your luck," Alex says, half-joking and half-serious. "I'm still mad at you."

They get in the car, and Alex pulls back onto the highway. The knot Strand had at the police station creeps back into his shoulders as they near Seattle. He knows today is going to be hell. About thirty minutes into the drive, Alex looks over at him. "I'm not, by the way," she says. "Recording this."

It is a small consolation, but it means the world to him.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure when this takes place! Somewhere in season 2 most definitely.
> 
> Also nothing against red tops. Red's actually my favorite color to wear, but Alex doesn't strike me as a bright colors kind of person.


End file.
